


Clean

by call_me_Sil



Category: Poldark - All Media Types, Return to Treasure Island (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 08:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4427747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/call_me_Sil/pseuds/call_me_Sil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An end to the tears<br/>And the in-between years<br/>And the troubles I've seen</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My_Trex_has_fleas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Trex_has_fleas/gifts).



> Modern-day DarkHawk bit, loosely connected to [My T-Rex Has Fleas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Trex_has_fleas/pseuds/My_Trex_has_fleas)'s [Closer](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4367780/chapters/9935915) and her [Land and Sea](http://archiveofourown.org/series/273981) series. It's her you have to blame for encouraging me, and also thank for suggesting another Depeche Mode song as title.

  
  
There's a heartbeat of a moment when he can't detect the sound of either Jim's or his own breathing, a moment of absolute silence. It was always going to come. Under any other circumstances it would bring out the fist that squeezes his stomach in premonition of something final, something fatal, the fear that's so pointless it always pisses him off. But not now. Now his hands tighten around Jim just a tad, not too much or too little, not claiming, not exactly reassuring, only bringing him closer and closer still, submerging him in what they share.

The room is dim with quickly perishing daylight. It never happens in the morning, mornings are beginnings and Jim never has a problem with those, his inner schoolboy kicking in, excited to take on responsibilities he's been entrusted with because he's brighter than the rest of them. It took months of living together before Ross found out that's where Jim's tidiness was coming from, having been a hyperactive kid, so infuriatingly smart that he taught himself over time to put restraints on his own agility by setting himself these little tasks, brushing his hair into perfect submission, folding his shirts just so.

It's only the nights that seem to crush him occasionally, and rarely as hard as today.

They could probably just talk. Or call the girls and get wasted. There are other things than sex, but the sex is theirs and theirs alone, and therefore vital. It's the way they pass along things that can't or shouldn't be bent into words. And it's usually all grit and devotion because that's just how they fuck, it's how they've fucked since the very first night, since before either of them had caught up on what their bodies were instinctively trying to do. As if you could pound love into someone, hammer it in, push it like a drug through the veins straight to the brain and drown the heart along the way. 

He's found the words since then, although it sometimes still takes courage to turn them into sound. Other times, like last night, he feels bold, drunk with the urge to add another layer to their intimacy.

 

_I love this. When it's tight and slow. When it feels like I might never escape._

_Do you?_

_It's like you always have a hold on me. Even when I fuck you, you got the reins._

 

What he gets in return is a sense of comprehension and response, a quiet echo that travels back and forth between them and turns the air liquid, just like it is now. He craves it. He misses it when they're around other people and he can't have it, can't touch the way he wants to touch, can't say what's burning on his tongue. Then the fear creeps up on him, what if he never gets to do it again, what if the last time was the last time ever. The months apart do strange things to his demeanor, they make him more reserved, it's like it has aged him, grounded him, having something big to come home to.

It could have turned out to be a mistake, a false positive. Wouldn't have been the first time for him, either. He had been there once before, had found himself being dragged in by the vortex and letting it happen. It didn't end well and now he sees why, because he was too light then, too easy to be picked up and taken away even by a shallow stream. Jim is a whole different kind of a force.

 

_Tell me._

_Oh god, don't..._

_I said tell me. I want to hear it._

_Please. I can't._

_You know when you say 'please' it only makes me harder, right?_

_Fuck._

_Look at you, gagging for it like a teenager. You can't control your dick when you say it out loud?_

_You know that… fuck, Jim. You know!_

_Do you think I care?_

_No. No, you don't._

_That's right. Now. Tell me what you want._

_Jesus. I want… I want you to fuck me hard... like you hate me._

_Beautiful. More._

_I want you to fuck me like you're sick of me. I need it._

_Beg for it then._

_Please._

_Again._

_Please. Oh, please, Jim. Please do it._

 

The freckled body in his lap stirs now, shivering slightly and feeling so pliable, so acquiescent. You'd think it's always been like that, always will be. It's hard to believe it could ever stand over him, demanding and strong, every muscle and tendon a leash that Ross feels pulling at him, is happy to succumb to.

He remembers the night in Bournemouth, the combined smell of tequila and cum on his upper lip, handprints on the mirror, sweat-drenched hair, his boyfriend's awed, disbelieving smile. The collar never came off that night, even after he'd let Jim peel down the stockings and undo the hooks on the corset one by one, even after he'd cluelessly wiped off his makeup with some tissues and hand lotion. He stood there in front of the mirror, barefoot and naked save for the leather band around his neck, unmoving, watching as the man he was bound to tried to collect himself against the door and then inevitably failed when his eyes landed on Ross again.

He remembers the cheers and wolf whistles when they finally came back out, remembers how invincible he felt, how proud of that little sign that was still marking him as Jim's. This is the kind of story they could tell their kids, if they'll ever have kids, and if it wasn't essentially about one dad ruthlessly fucking the other, in drag, in a dressing room of a strip club, in Bournemouth, at a friend's stag do. When he really concentrates he still gets dizzy with remnants of the high that lasted well into the next day. They fell asleep together after they'd hardly managed to take most of their clothes off, and in the morning there was an imprint of his pendant on Jim's left arse cheek, because, you know, love does that to you. The whole thing was savage. The whole thing felt like an engagement.

He smiles, doesn't know how not to.

The skin tastes salty and warm where his lips are pressed against Jim's clavicle, anchoring them together. His body, never an innocent bystander, strains with want, and he's not trying to utterly suppress it, only mellow it down and keep it simmering, just enough to let Jim take his time. They've learnt to stifle out the dark. They had felt around the edges and found each other's hollows, found the bullet holes, found the long protrusions of scar tissue, studied them, prodded, learned how to caress them and scratch them when they ache and itch. They know now. Ross needs Jim to tame his monsters with chains and ropes. Jim needs Ross to keep him afloat.

And so he does. There's never an admission or a complaint, but Jim's teeth always bite down on the inside of his cheeks so hard that Ross tastes copper when he kisses him. Without saying anything he reaches straight for the back of Jim's neck and claims his mouth again, deeper, doesn't let him breathe properly for a good minute, and Jim breaks under him.

"Come."

It's wordless after that, and every single touch counts.

There is a point when Jim becomes restless, shivers spreading from inside. Feebly, he attempts to lift himself up, but Ross tightens his hold on him.

"Don't."

He'd never think of forcing Jim, but this is different. They have done this before, they have safewords. There are barriers put up to keep out the pain, the real pain, but this _is_ different, it's only panic, the knot in Jim's left-hand side telling him he's being vulnerable. If Ross lets go of him, it won't leave for hours. There's actually something masochistic about this, his readiness to soak up what's vile and get rid of it for Jim. He's prepared to do it for the rest of his life if he needs to.

"Better?"

He doesn't have to look at Jim's face, he can feel him nodding, once, twice, deliberately, a controlled motion that says 'this is what I want you to know'. Controlled and deliberate is good, controlled and deliberate is Jim becoming Jim again, picking himself up after he'd been dismantled by something, by someone. Ross would love to know one day, would love to ask, but it's selfish and he knows it. It's not about that. There will always be someone, something, this will always happen. So he fucks Jim better instead, envelops him and slides into him, embracing his body and covering it with his own.

They're rocking together now, the barest hint of friction, and he can sense the anxiety washing away, replaced by something much more primal and familiar and welcome. That's when the silence breaks for good, when a quiet moan slips out of Jim's mouth and it's met with a gasp, and Ross knows everything is going to be all right. They're heading home, waves smoothing themselves out under them like you're running your hand over silk.

At first it's just the panting, getting heavier, more urgent. Then he feels Jim's arms come alive around him, suddenly pulling him tight against his chest that's like a shield now, daring him to attack. And then Jim's lips are reaching for him, but Ross pushes him away and widens the angle between them, forces him to lean back, holding him there, and his hips surge up and forward.

"Fuck!"

Jim's broken cry tells him he didn't miss. He thrusts again.

"Christ, yes. Harder."

Jim reaches back and grabs the rails of the headboard above his head, suspended between them and Ross, legs clenching around him, ready to take whatever's coming, and Ross can't contain himself anymore, doesn't have to. He gets on his knees, holding Jim up, and finds a deep, sustained rhythm, brows furrowed and mouth open with the delicious stretch around him.

"Look at me."

He follows the gravelly voice and focuses on Jim. There's nothing weary or apprehensive in his face, no hesitation in his eyes.

"Faster. Make me feel it."

He speeds up and Jim lets his head fall back, his moaning getting louder, more desperate, more shameless. His cock is slick with sweat and heavy between them, untouched, so perfect and obscene it dazes Ross every time. He's dying to wrap his lips around it and take it in, would love nothing better than to let it fill his mouth, let it choke him until he tears up. But this is not about him either. He's happy giving Jim anything he wants and taking all the pleasure he can get out of it.

Their shouts grow feral, sweaty hands slip from the railing and they both collapse on the bed. Jim's hips are elevated now and Ross' cock is bent down almost painfully, but they don't stop, the angle making their ride unspeakably good. Ross steadies himself with one hand next to Jim's head, enticed by everything in front of him, everything he knows is his. Finally, he closes his fist around Jim and slides down as he drives into his body, the sweet collision tearing a wail from Jim's lips.

"God, you’re gorgeous."

Jim's eyes fall shut and his fingers pull at Ross' hair. Skin feels raw where their hips meet, burning with tomorrow's bruises.

"I love you."

Just like that, on a ragged exhale. It startles him, so close to the edge, but then it only helps to push him over. He breathes his answer and pulls out as he watches Jim coming, presses himself against his lover and lets go as well, making a mess of the fresh sheets. They'll deal with them in the morning, because mornings are beginnings and there will always be a new one.

Slowly, so slowly, they start kissing again.

 

 


End file.
